


Hello... | Tyler Joseph

by riddlespeaks



Category: Twenty One Pilots
Genre: Anxiety, Based on a Twenty One Pilots Song, Bipolar Disorder, Christianity, Depression, Doubt, Fear of Death, Gen, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Internal Conflict, Mental Breakdown, Mental Health Issues, Music, Origin Story, Panic Attacks, Poetry, Psychological Drama, Religious Conflict, Song Lyrics, Songfic, Songwriting, Thriller, Trees, Writing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-16
Updated: 2016-08-16
Packaged: 2018-08-09 05:32:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7788658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/riddlespeaks/pseuds/riddlespeaks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Seventeen-year-old Tyler Joseph, after suffering from yet another panic attack, runs into the woods in the middle of the night to sort out his thoughts. Atop a tall oak, he seeks an answer to his question: "Is anybody out there?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hello... | Tyler Joseph

**Author's Note:**

> origin of "Trees" lyrics, by twenty one pilots.

He shouldn't be thinking like this.

He was young. Safe. Educated. Full of opportunities. He had loving parents and playful siblings, and he lived in a house that most kids his age dreamed of ever having. He admittedly had it better than most people his age, but there was something wrong. Something was missing. And the fact that he didn't know what it was was quite literally killing him inside.

The boy had been awake for hours, long after the rest of the family had laid down and was comfortably resting. Meanwhile, his mind traveled at a quicker pace than his body and soul could possibly fathom. Racing thoughts, trembling hands, cold sweats, heaving lungs. The pitch black darkness of his bedroom seemed to swallow him alive, materializing into some massive, hulking monster, with a craving for some poor, miserable, seventeen-year-old boy. It was too much.  
  
_Am I dead?_  
 _Am I going to die?_  
 _What happens when we die?_  
 _Please help me._

His mother had explained the symptoms of a panic attack before, but he blew it off as overthinking. Giving these episodes names like "panic attacks" and "anxious spells" made them all the more real, and, while the online searches all led to explanations of textbook anxiety, acceptance meant facing the demon and being responsible for the outcome. He decided to take his chances with the mental distortions. He wasn't ready to conquer the beast. He wasn't strong enough. Not yet.

But would he ever be? Through gnashed teeth and rushed breath, he searched his head endlessly for a reason. A reason for what? Anything, at this point. A reason to care. A reason to smile. A reason to exist.

_Why bother?_ he thinks on repeat, again and again, every time the world falls asleep, leaving him awake to his own thoughts.

Purpose. That's it. He was searching for purpose.

And yet here he was, 2AM in a darkened room, tangled in a mass of sheets lightly damped from saliva and tears during the manic episode, pondering why he was ever born. Why anyone is born. Why he continues.

_Will this ever end?_   
_Is anybody listening to me?_   
_Why do I feel this way?_   
_Can anybody tell me?_   
_Where are you?_

Before he could stop himself, he felt himself rise from the messy bed, grab his drawstring backpack, place a saggy beanie over his head, and walk to his door. He turned the doorknob with hesitant ease and creaked the door open quietly, careful not to awaken anyone else in the house, especially his parents. This was a talk with them he didn't want to have and didn't want to explain himself. They wouldn't understand, anyway.

Nobody ever understands.

_Bag? Check._   
_Keys? Check._   
_...Do I need anything else?_   
_I don't think so._   
_Um._   
_Okay..._

The boy had become a master at fleeing the house silently, now, hardly even making a thud as his shoes touched the hardwood stairs or forming a click with the inner mechanisms of a turning door handle. He often enjoyed sitting on the front porch to clear his head when these kinds of things happened, but this time, it was different. Maybe he was over it. Maybe his body had had enough. Maybe he thought he could find better closure elsewhere. Whatever the reasoning, the porch wasn't enough. He needed to get away. Far away.

Though he lived in a decently populated surburban-like community, there was an area of densely wooded territory some yards behind his back yard. His brothers and himself used to go there when they were little and climb the trees. Those were the days, really. He missed it. Anyway, he approached the woods, checking over his shoulder every so often to ensure that nobody was watching. And of course, they weren't. They were sleeping. Peacefully.

_It must be nice to sleep at night_ , he thought to himself enviously, wishing to badly that he could ever sleep soundly again.

He rubbed the back of his hand against his cheeks, removing some of the salty tears that had caked onto his face following the state of panic. His eyes were bloodshot and puffy, and he had a splitting headache. He felt just as he appeared, and that was like hell. Instead of feeling depressed or distressed like he usually did after the anxiety attacks, he now just felt solemn, hollow, beaten. Disgusting. Confused. The list could go on and on, but in all honesty, this kind of hopelessness has no words, other than perhaps just that: hopelessness.

_Why can't I be happy?_ he thinks. _My parents love me. My siblings look up to me. My teachers praise me. I have a nice life, so much nicer than some people. Yet, here I am. Why?_

The twigs and leaves crackled and snapped beneath his tired footsteps, and before he knew it, he had arrived. In the middle of the forest stood the thick and towering oak that he and his brothers often competed on by climbing its sturdy limbs as fast and as high as they could. He was never the one who could climb the highest, his older brother always beating him by just a few feet. But, he was going to change that, tonight.

_Wait 'til he sees this._

About three-fourths of the way up the tree was a specific branch that he had always made a mental note of. It looked perfect, as it was very high up there, yet also appeared strong enough to hold his weight even now. With eager determination, he planted his foot on the first split in the tree between limbs, and pulled himself up to the next available footing.

_This isn't near as easy as it was eight years ago_ , he said to himself, chuckling slightly through a trying groan.

He did this repeatedly, and he noted that this was much more difficult under the conditions, those being 1) his physical growth, and 2) the weight of his bag. He could have left the bag on the ground if he really wanted to make this easier, but he couldn't. The bag had to come with him. Besides, he wasn't afraid of falling.

After a few minutes of squirming and pulling, the boy had already noticed that this is the highest he had ever climbed the specific tree before, and he was almost certain that he had even surpassed his brothers record, now. But he still had just a little bit further to go before reaching his destination. Carefully and thoughtfully, he shifted his feet around in search of footholds while his hands aimed upward for thick branches to grasp and pull his weight upward. There were a few scares, no lie to be told, especially the last upward thrust before reaching the final branch, where the limb ever so slightly cracked and shifted, causing him to fall backward just enough to shake him up. Finally, though, he reached the place safe and sound, and he straddled the branch - which was about three feet in width, enough to comfortably sit on - and placed the drawstring bag in front of him, leaning back against the body of the oak and catching his breath as he closed his eyes.

_Phew. I made it._

Behind his eyelids, everything went dark, again, and he absorbed all of the environmental sounds about him - the chirping crickets, the hooting owls, the rustling of bushes underneath, the calm movements of the leaves surrounding him. When he opened his eyes again, he was greeted by the sight of a pale, half moon above, floating in a navy sea full of twinkling little stars, all framed by an envelope of green leaves. Beautiful. But he remained inconsolable.

Staring back down, he pulled open his drawstring bag. It contained mostly a bunch of journals and sketchbooks, where he jotted down some of his most creative ideas. He was a writer, mainly, and what an imaginative person he was, truly gifted in the department of poetry and literature. It was his only escape from this world full of apathy and pointlessness. It was his only solace.

He flipped through his older notebooks from when he was 15. They were full of things he now considered to be overly corny and dramatic, but in some ways, he wished to have that writing style back. Where he didn't feel the need to be so serious and emotional in every little word his pen formed on the paper. He no longer wrote out of enjoyment, but instead, out of comfort. A way of coping. Just to get through another day.

His newer notebooks were just chock full of the same sad songs and letters. Ideas and thoughts that he would no longer dare share with his friends or family out of fear of what they might do or say. He was terrified of their judgement and concern. It was better this way, to face it all alone. That way, nobody else has to suffer with him.

He also typically carried a Bible with him, although, not this particular time. He grew up in a very religious household, his parents devotedly involved in churches and Christian school programs. He was once a devout Christian, himself, following the footsteps of his father by joining religious clubs and participating in activities held by his church's youth group, but anymore, he was so uncertain. He didn't get along so well with the other church kids - not that they were mean or rude to him, but he just found that he could not relate to any of them whatsoever. And that goes for any kid his age, really; while most teenagers get into stuff like sports or dances, he was more of an artsy kid, who just loved to read and write, and occasionally, enjoy music. He hoped to compose music of his own, someday, but he knew it was a farfetched idea.

But, back to his spirituality, it was truly a constant conflict within him. He wanted to believe as his parents did, as the kids at his school did, as his fellow churchgoers, as he himself did when he was younger, but lately, it just seemed... distant. Like a star in the night sky - just in plain sight, yet entirely untouchable.

_That's a good one. I'll write that down._

His mother would be heartbroken if he lost his faith. And he didn't even want to know what his dad would think. Then, he definitely wouldn't fit in with the youth group, anymore. He wouldn't even fit in at his own house.

But God... God didn't feel close tonight. Or last night. Or ever.

And if He was close, He had to be turning a blind eye. Or worse, He was laughing at him. Staring down silently, judging his every move. What difference would it make? The other kids and adults did it to him, sometimes even his own family and friends did the same. If men are made in God's image, who's to say He isn't joining them in a sick round of applause at his wasted joke of a short life?

He looked up again. The scene he described earlier looked so different in his depressive state of mind. The sky was just, black. The moon dimly lit a small portion of the darkness, bursting into a dark yellow before being halfway consumed behind the shadowy clouds. The leaves rattled mockingly at his pain, and the woodland animals cheered on his fate. _Do it_ , they chanted in his mind. _Do it, do it, do it do it do it do it._

Do what?

Then, the boy looked down. _Wow_ , he thought to himself, only now realizing just how far off the ground he really was, the leaves and grass below appearing microscopic beneath the shadows of the surrounding trees. He had to be a good twenty-five feet or more above the ground, but it didn't make him nervous. He enjoyed the view, if anything. He wasn't afraid of heights. In his continued amazement, he slid the beanie off of his head, feeling the air dance along his messy brown hair, and dropped it to the ground. It floated down carelessly, and, after just a few seconds, made the slightest "pat" as it hit a bed of leaves below.

_Hmmm_ , he thought. _That looks fun_.

Whilst continuing to look down, he raked his fingers across his left arm, feeling the light bumps and marks beneath his touch, the product of his mental suffering. He couldn't tell anybody. He refused. They had no right to know. And he had no right to do it. But he did. More often than he would ever care to admit.

_I just want to be happy_ , he thought to himself, tears welling up in his brown, sad eyes. _I don't want money. I don't want a girlfriend. I don't want fame. I don't even want God. He laid his head down in his crossed arms atop his knees. I just want to be happy. Why can't I be happy? Why?_

The woods suddenly grew silent. The insects ceased their buzzing and the leaves quieted their rustling. The only noise emitting from the forest now was his muffled sobbing and confused chatter. It was as if the woods wanted to hear him suffer. They enjoyed the show.

_Oh, I'll give them a show._

Again, his bag was normally filled with his private journals and sketchbooks, along with other things like flashlights and batteries, just in case. He was never good at keeping journals, but he felt safe with them. Sometimes, anyway. But today - tonight - was different. Tonight, he brought something extra. You know. Just in case.

He threw it over his head, just like a T-shirt, and tightened it some just around his throat. It felt scratchy and woody, like usual, but something about the texture was haunting, this time around. Maybe because he had full intentions of actually succeeding in his plans, this time. But regardless, he kept on, ignoring the eeriness in his manic state.

He took a step out further onto the branch, and then another. He hopped up and down slightly, just to get a good feel of how sturdy the thing really was. And it was pretty darn sturdy. It could hold his weight and hold it for a while.

_Great. That's just what I need._

He repeated the steps again and tightened it around the girth of the tree limb. Double-knotted, because he didn't want any errors or accidents, and he sure didn't want to live to explain anything. He knew if he was going to do it, he needed to do it right, and well.

And knowing that, for once, actually scared him.

Once he finished tying all of his knots, he laid back in his original spot against the trunk of the oak, his head in his hand and tears gushing down his face as his racing thoughts, once again, overwhelmed his mind. They were much louder and resentful now than they had ever been before, and his conflict and contemplation grew and grew in complexity as the emotions whirled about inside of him. Rage. Sadness. Confusion. Panic. Fear. Fear was the worst. Until finally, his emotions got the best of him, and he could no longer contain the pain.

" _IS ANYBODY OUT THERE?_ " he cried mercilessly and demandingly at the sky, removing his face from his hands as he shouted angrily at nothing at all. At whoever or whatever would listen. He was greeted only by the echoes of his own deafening despair, pounding against the mountains and cursing back at him, mocking him, laughing at him.

" _ANYBODY? ANYBODY AT ALL?_ " he continued, but, once more, with no reply. His dismay was becoming more and more real with every unnoticed cry for love and attention.

" _Anybody..._ " he choked out one final time between his quiet begging and falling tears. And the silence following his questions kindly answered them.

After a moment or so of building up the will and the courage, he stood up, hunched over so he could crawl toward the spot on the branch where he made his knot a couple of feet away from the trunk. He didn't want to slam into it as he fell.

For a long time, he just stood there, gazing downward. He knew that all he had to do was lean. Sway. Trip. Anything, and it would all be over. No more sadness, no more anxiety, no more fear. Just one last step forward, and he could end this. So far in his pain that he could no longer see the love of his parents, the admiration of his friends, and even the support of his church, he pushed the reasons to stay out of his mind, focusing only on one thing: freedom.

He must have been crouched in that spot for several minutes, his palms sweating and his body quivering as his brain fought a raging war with itself: instincts telling him to just get down from there, but his sadness telling him to just step forward into the air, to fall. He felt a very light burn forming on his neck from the tightness and the scraping. He swallowed uncomfortably.

Finally, he made his decision. He prepared himself. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes, allowing a few final tears to escape before slowly beginning to lean forward.

But that's when he felt it. The wind. Or, was it the wind? It tickled his face and what bits of his neck were still uncovered, and he even heard it flipping around the pages of his old notebook beside of him. Everything else aside from the moving leaves and branches was silent, and now, all that the boy could concentrate on was the cool-warm breeze against his skin. The motioning air. The beckoning... breath.

He stood up rapidly.

" _HELLO?_ " he cried. His echoes screamed back at him.

" _WAS THAT IT?_ " he screamed out once more. " _WAS THAT YOU? WAS THAT YOUR SIGN?_ "

No response.

He walked back to the tree's trunk and slammed his fist into it furiously.

" _WHY?_ " he yelled maniacally. " _WHY WON'T YOU SPEAK? WHY WON'T YOU TALK TO ME? WHY, WHY, WHY?!_ "

Silence.

The boy slumped down in a fit and dug his hands into either side of his head, feeling his temples pound against the tips of his fingers as he ground them into his hair.

" _ARE YOU A COWARD? IS THAT IT?_ " he spat. " _I KNOW YOU'RE THERE! I KNOW YOU HEAR ME! WHY WON'T YOU SHOW YOURSELF, HUH?_ "

Nothing.

" _HELLOOOO!_ "

( _ **HELLO** , **Hello** , hello..._)

He waited and waited for something, anything, to prove itself. To prove to him that he wasn't nuts. And, to be honest, he wasn't entirely sure if he found what he was looking for. He wasn't sure that he ever would. But, for some reason, tonight, he felt oddly... reassured, though still hideously unnerved and confused. His answer was such an unclear one.

With his face buried in his bended knees, his manic cries and demands turned back into anguished sobs and whimpers. With tears pouring from his veiny eyes and mucus dripping from his blushed nose, tracing the lines around his lips and chin, he could only manage to utter the words "I'm sorry" between gasps and moans.

" _I'm sorry_ ," he reasoned, pleaded, even. " _I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry..._ " He seemed to say that word more than anything, now.

And he prayed that word was heard.

Once he finally collected himself, he removed the thing from his throat and untied it from the branch. Instead of putting it back into his bag, he slung it deep into the dark woods, praying it was found never again. Maybe someday, he could come to this forest and celebrate and sing again like he did when he was a kid, but for now, the trees just pestered him, haunted him. He needed to leave them be. For now.

As he got his things together, placing his books back into the drawstring bag, he had a few ideas bouncing about in his skull. Not bad or good ideas, really, but more so, creative, and satisfying. Healing, perhaps?

There was a tune stuck in his head, now, and this time, it had words.

With great haste, Tyler Joseph made his way back down the tree and onto the ground, running out of the woods and back into his back yard, turning around only once after remembering his fallen beanie and snatching it from the ground before bolting back out of the woods, and soon, into his home.

He was going to write a song.


End file.
